


Knighted Intelligence

by TheTalkingPeanut



Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [6]
Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Drunk Driving, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, First Time, M/M, Origin Story, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingPeanut/pseuds/TheTalkingPeanut
Summary: Bruce Wayne drinks. Gets drunk. For the first time.(For the Weekly Three-Word Prompts on the Discord Chuckletown: Love, Curtain, Breeze)
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Series: Now I'm a Man; Yours [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665307
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Knighted Intelligence

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Another end of the week, another three-word prompt! THIS time, it is:  
> Love  
> Curtain  
> Breeze
> 
> I hope it's okay. Enjoy, I guess?

Hollow. That’s what Arthur had been. Hollow and empty. 

No, worse than empty. _Lifeless._ A machine, a puppet. A--a creature that reminded him of that one from the long book series; what was it called, uh… _Lord of the… Grapes of… Hardy Boys?_ No, it wasn’t _Hardy Boys_ . It had boys in it. Or people who looked like boys. They ate a lot. Like--like goats. Goats eat everything. Maybe the story was about goats? _The Three Billy Goats Fluff. Gruff. The Three Billy Goats Gruff._ That had a troll in it. A troll that ate goats. What is it with trolls eating goats? Fuck, thinking is hard. What was the thing’s name, anyway? Glub. Collum. Culager. Penis Fucker. The thought rips a series of giggles from him. He snorts. _Penis Fucker, the Goat Eating Troll._

… Where was he going with this?

Bruce is teething on the rim of the glass in his hand as these thoughts fog up his brain. His hair is pointing in every direction. ‘Slumped in the chair’ doesn’t quite describe his posture in the leather-back armchair facing the room. His body is as relaxed as a wet noodle. Limbs spread and dangling without decency or care. He’s not mentally home and that is the entire point of this trash-bending escapade. He doesn’t want to be home.

And home is where he always. Fucking. Is.

That, or now his family’s company, Wayne Enterprise. Since he’s turned eighteen everyone thought it best he starts to get more acquainted with his future career. Afterall; he’ll be running it soon. Hell, he should be running it now. But none of the suits are comfortable with a ‘pipsqueak’ manning the reins of the multi-million dollar business until he’s twenty-one. So, in the meantime, learn from the experts until then. Great.

The only other place one can find Bruce nowadays is with Arthur at Arkham. This is an absolute guarantee. The archaic hospital is a frightening maze to get lost in but Bruce is still a cinch to locate. There are two locations the young heir can be at any time in the building; 

One.) The two-seater near the gramophone in the visiting room, across from inmate, Arthur Fleck.

Or Two.) Wherever Arthur Fleck is.

The word had spread like a wildfire after a dry spell throughout Gotham of the young multi-millionaire’s strange obsession with the homicidal clown and his consistent, regular visits to see him on a weekly basis. (Most likely another key reason why Wayne Enterprise chose not to have him at the helm any time soon.) There were many - bless them - who chose to see it as a young man of position doing his best to try to save a lost soul. For the memory of his parents, of course. Forgive and forget and all that.

Then, there was the overall consensus that the young Wayne had plum lost his mind and they waited for the day he’d go in the old building and remain a resident. None of them would blame him.

What everyone failed to see was that Bruce didn’t have a choice in the matter. He _had_ to go see him. To live. To wake up and face each day with a reason to do so. Arthur gave him something to look forward to just by existing. Bruce felt it; Arthur is his other half. He’s the only one he’s allowed to just walk up and touch him without a second thought to all the warnings and rules his mother and Alfred tried to burn into his brain. _Don’t_ talk to strangers. _Don’t_ walk up to them. And absolutely _don’t_ let them ever, _ever_ touch you.

Bruce trashed every one of those rules for Arthur. All in a single instant. And he knows in his heart of hearts that - given half the chance - he’d do it again, and again, and again. He’d do anything for the man. 

And right now, that man is _suffering_ within the walls of his prison. His last visit showed him that. The memory of their phone call alone shatters his heart, grinds it into a fine powder, then blows it in the wind.

Bruce doesn’t know what the hell to do. He’s never been in love before. He’s never cared for someone so profoundly that it hurts when he’s away from them. Utterly destroys him when they are unhappy. Kills him when they are hurt. It’s crippling, frightening, and God so overpowering.

So. He chose to drink.

\--- Now, it should be noted here that the young Wayne has never before consumed large amounts of alcohol. Naturally, when he was younger (being newly eighteen years of age now) he had been policed by his parents and Alfred. Mostly done by the latter. He knew where most of the liquor cabinets were and the various bars that are tucked away in the mansion itself. His father would openly pour drinks in front of him when guests arrived, so he got a general idea of how it’s done. He asked his father a couple of times if he could try some from his own glass. Nearly every time he had refused him. “You’re too young,” was his favorite phrase to toss back at him. “We’ll wait until you’re more of a man.” Or the other common response, “Ask your mother.”

To have a sip of hard liquor? She would never allow that and he knew it. What his father _didn’t_ know, was that his mother did sneak him tastes of her wine every so often. Wayne enjoyed the trust she had in him and the sweet little moments of sitting on her lap to have a sample. They were brief, easily forgettable moments. But they left a lasting impression on him.

After the Fateful Night, Alfred locked down all cabinets containing alcohol. He kept watch of the bars like a hawk in fear of the young Wayne breaking down and tearing into them. The butler knew it would happen, he just didn’t know when. 

Now, well past one in the morning, Alfred soundly sleeps. Blissfully unaware of the first time his Master ‘Communicates with the Spirits of the Manor.’ ---

Okay. That last one was an atomic bomb laying waste to his taste buds. He admits it. He sorta poured some of this and a little of that into his glass each time, and at first it was fine. But whatever concoction he did this time clearly didn’t work. He has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s in his father’s study where he knows of the glass liquor bottles that are kept out as remembrance. His father used this area the most and Bruce has quite a few fond memories of him connected to them. So, it had been decided amongst Alfred and himself to leave everything as it had been when his parents had last touched it. Naturally, due to that, the bottles are still out, liquid still inside. Quality? Well. The young heir never took that into consideration. Of course, it would be the finest, however, it _had_ been sitting out for some time now…

The crystal bottles are of different sizes. Most have brown liquid. A few have clear. That meant literally nothing to Bruce. He recalls seeing his father and other adults pouring one bottle into a glass than doing the same with another. So, he followed that rule. Didn’t know why it was done, but figured it meant something about flavor. 

It certainly did give each drink a special… something. Neither two were the same, that was for sure. He sniffed each one. Then poured. The first one burned and started a coughing fit. It almost stopped him from wanting to even continue. Almost.

The next one was easier - he used more clear stuff. Less brown stuff. The glass he had was fist-sized, and the more he took the fire down the more his buzzed brain thought of the great idea to chug them down faster. Like, if he did that, he’d beat the strange numbness that was growing in his head. A race, if you will. 

He wasn’t winning.

*

How many he’s currently had up until now he’s not entirely sure. Most of the bottles are empty and litter the floor. There’s one that shattered, liquor spread all over the wooden floor. He doesn't know how that got there, but the shards are awfully pretty. 

Bruce tips his glass back for another burn of the good stuff but nothing comes. He turns it upside down right over his face and looks up, wondering where it all went. A drop spits on his forehead. He doesn’t react to it. The fact that it’s empty, _again_ , makes him grunt. That’s just, well that’s just irritating.

He drops his hand to his lap and frowns at the glass. “Why do you hafta empty? Huh? “The words slur out. “Why can’t you stay full when I fill you-you, you…” he doesn’t finish the sentence as he begins to zone out.

He snaps his head back up, not realizing it had begun to lower. A spot of drool left a mark on his pants. He smacks his mouth, looks around. The glass is sitting near his crotch since one leg hasn’t left its post over the armrest. Bruce picks it up, turns it upside down once more...

And rests the mouth of the glass on his hanging knee. There. Now his knee has a hat. He believes his work here is done.

The multi-millionaire blows a raspberry at the room while rubbing his hands together. The vibration makes his brain feel funny and a spring of giggles breaks out. He buries his face in his hands and twists in the chair. Something clatters to the floor. What was it? He turns to look. His Knee’s hat is laying on its side in front of him, now having rolled over to the floor rug. It’s still in one piece.

Bruce stares at it in wonderment. Slack Jawed. “It’sss magic!” He shouts. Arms out, “Medjick is real! Holy fuckk! And I’m the only one who knows this!”

A sparkle near the foot of his chair catches his eye and he drops his heads to see it. A nearly full bottle of delicious gasoline sits untouched. He must’ve - at some point - tucked it away there.

Bruce lets out a happy cry and grabs the neck of the crystal vessel. He brings it to his lips and smothers it with sloppy kisses; it’s the brown stuff.

He lifts off the top humming a tune then, licking is lips, brings the nectar up and suckles away. He lowers it to look at the contents again, the humming grew louder. He snorts out a laugh.

He’s thinking how odd the word ‘magic’ sounds.

“Mmm, maah, maagic, maaaaaagic - _hic!_ \- uhmaaarjorie.” Another slew of giggles comes. The hiccup is new.

Bruce looks over to the door about to take another swig when his eyes fall on the set of armor that’s stationed next to the door. He raises the bottle to it. 

“Knights of the round table! Oh, great knights to King Arthur--”  
  
 _Arthur._

Bruce stills. The name echoes through his fogged-up mind. His body tingles. “Arthur,” he whispers the name. It’s too precious to say louder. The emotions the one name does to him are instant and overwhelming--Bruce is at a loss for breath. He scans the room again and notices how quiet it is. How large and vacant. He’s alone here.

It hits quickly, the feeling is too strong. Bruce cries.

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” he wails to no one. His head buried in one hand. The other refuses to relinquish the bottle. “Please forgive me for being so useless to you! I don’t deserve you. I-I only want to be there for you, with you, but I don’t know…”

His shoulders move with his sobs. Snot starts to form. He sniffs. “I just want you with me,” he whispers.

Several seconds pass by in silence. The lone slumped figure doesn’t move. A button is pushed, a lever is switched, and suddenly the figure pops up to life.

Bruce looks back on the suit of armor, pupils seeming to dilate. He smiles.  
  
“I know what to do,” he says. “I'll just go get him and bring him back here. I’m a genius.”

Wayne topples out of the chair - somehow not spilling the alcohol - sways to a stand and makes a… general direction to the armor.

“HA!” the young man yells at it, pointing. The armor doesn’t respond to him. He reaches up and after several missed attempts manages to grab the helmet off and hugs it to his chest. “Mine.” He then kicks its leg with a loud _Clang!_

Somehow, Alfred still doesn’t awaken.

It takes some struggling at first to get the base of the helmet on - twice he put it on backward - but in the end it settles into place, the faceplate causing him to see the room between metal slits. He tips over, crashes into a wall; his head has become quite heavy now. Cackling echoes inside his new metal casement. _Woah,_ is it loud in there. He swears he can hear his brain thinking.

He whistles - and immediately learns that’s a mistake. Now his ears are ringing. _Okay. Don’t whistle in a metal box. I’m a genius._

Bruce figures out how to lift the faceplate. He sighs. “Voila! Sir Bruce is on the way, my King!”

He stumbles a bit, feels around his waist. “Ah, but alas! I have no weapon! I-I’m...I...gotta go get one.” And proceeds to waddle over to the fireplace. He reaches down - trying not to fall into the fireplace itself - and grabs a poker. The hook it's on doesn’t let go of it easily. In fact, as Bruce thrusts his ‘mighty sword’ straight up into the air, the entire fireplace tool stand falls over. The loud noise upsets the other ‘presence’ in the room.

“Ah-ha! I have my Ex--Exaculaber! Excalpitrate! Exconapuladoreasoraus!... _The Penis Fucker!”_

Bruce proceeds to swing the poker out in front of him in large swipes and lunges. His face is flushed. He stomps forward and back, pretends to stab something and rip it in two. He proudly guffaws and takes another swig from his bottle.

A black thing flitters across the room. Bruce sees it. It’s another bat flying around in the study.

A lightbulb turns on. Bruce’s eyes widen at the rodent.

Wayne has a brilliant idea. He points the finger holding the bottle at the bat.

“WINGS!” he shouts, the unswallowed alcohol spills out of his mouth. “I need wings! I’m a genius!”

*

The adventure of Bruce acquiring his wings was… interesting. But not great. The multi-millionaire chose to use a shower curtain when attempting to catch the bat with his bare hands and his mighty ‘Penis Fucker’ failed miserably. The idea had been to have the bat attach itself to his back and fly him to Arkham.

He had to make a Plan B. Which was the curtain.

The one he chose Bruce was quite proud of, although it was a bitch to get. It had been a cloth curtain that hung around a guest bathroom’s claw tub.He thought it’d be a cinch. But the young heir quickly discovered that cloth does not so easily rip off of round metal clasps on a sturdy metal frame. Thank God he wore the helmet. Not that it did much…

_Somehow,_ the plastered man got it off from where it hung with only one rather concerning dent in his head armor and several rings still intact. With these, he used to clip the cape/wings around his back and tied to his front.

After finishing off the remains of the crystal bottle, Sir Bruce Wayne knew it is time to take his horse and ride off to the castle.

*

Bruce wanted to be a Centaur. So he took a convertible. They have at least two. In the passenger seat next to him was:

A hook with a rope attached.

A bag of pretzels.

A random pillow from a couch.

Penis Fucker.

Some string cheese.

His magical Knee’s hat.

A tree branch.

All of these things Wayne deems vitally important for the rescue mission.

There’s no traffic. The radio is blasting. Bruce drives pedal to the metal through the streets of his beloved city. Standing in the car.

It’s on auto-pilot. He’s crowing along to music he doesn’t know the words to. Steering is a challenge. In fact, he’s not even in the right lane. Anymore. Now he is. Nope, nevermind.

The rich drunk has taken over the entire street. Swerving from one end to the next, throwing a hand up to feel the wind. Sometimes both. Occasionally he bends down for a handful of pretzels. SHoves them in his gob. The dried pieces fly up and out of his mouth every single time he opens it. His wings, plus the pretzel pieces, leave a trail behind him. 

Not to mention helter-skelter tire marks.

On occasion, a car happens to pass him by. All they get a look at is a helmet-wearing, caped freak maniacally laughing as it zips past.

They say nothing and will most likely do nothing because, well, it’s Gotham.

*

Bruce arrives at the hospital in record time. Then he passes the hospital. Then about ten to fifteen minutes later he realizes his mistake, turns around, heads back, and crashes the car near the hospital because he forgot how the brakes work. Thankfully by then, Bruce had begun to grow quite exhausted so his foot on the gas had lessened considerably. He is going about five miles an hour when he taps the light post near the imposing fortress.

The young man collected a few of his things and swayed his way over to the building.

He stopped by a wall of barred windows, knowing one of them led to _his_ Arthur. He’s panting, heart racing. A breeze billows his ‘wings’ to dance about him. The faceplate is down. Mighty Penis Fucker is at his side. The rope and hook coiled at his other. He lifts his faceplate. All is quiet. Then…

“HEY, ARTHUR!” Bruce hollers at the wall. He begins an unbalanced pacing. Hands cup his mouth, “ARTHUR!! I’M HERE!! GET YOUR FUCKING ASS OUT HERE, NOW!!”

Wayne throws his arms out wide, continues yelling, “ARTHUR, OH WONDERFUL KING OF MINE! YOUR WHITE KNIGHT IS…” Bruce pauses, sways, blinks one eye then the other and tries to grab his wings. “Where the fuck are they? Come here.” The faceplate clamps down.

He grips a fistful and brings it mere inches from his face, lifting the faceplate back up. Frowning. He addresses the wall again with another slow blink. “WELL, IT’S NOT EXACTLY WHITE. IT’S DARKER THAN THAT. I CAN’T, QUITE MAKE OUT what it is actually...erm...hmm...I think, maybe… It--IT COULD BE BROWN! OR, OR MAROON. OR FUCK IF I KNOW. IT’S TOO DARK TO TELL. OR SEE. WHATEVER, IT’S A DARK COLOR. SO, UHH… YOUR DARK KNIGHT IS HERE, THEN! YEAH! I'M YOUR DARK KNIGHT! I’M A GENIUS!”

Bruce points his sword to the sky, “PRISON ARKHAM! IF YOU DO NOT RELEASE MY BELOVED KING ARTHUR, I’M COMING IN THERE TO GET HIM MYSELF, YA HEAR ME!?”

Wind whistles through the holes in his helmet. A dog barks in the distance.

The Dark Knight sniffs, gives a curt nod, and makes his decision. He unravels the rope. Swings the hook around and around to gain momentum. It starts to make a rhythmic sound. His adrenaline rises. He releases it, throwing it out.

He watches it as it sails - hook, rope, and all - through the air and Thwacks! into the side of the old building, drop like a dead bird hitting a window with chunks of broken stone with it.

Bruce slumps to a sitting position, legs out in front of him. Faceplate slams down, hiccups. Somewhere in the back of his clogged mind he understands that it didn’t work because he did _not_ know how the hell to use the fucking thing. Perhaps something else to learn…

“Arthur, come o- _hiccup_ -on!” Bruce whines. “I got all dressed and I-- _hiccup_ \--want you to come with me! Please?”

Wayne lifts the faceplate again, mopes where he sits. He stares at the building in front of him. Hiccups. “Come out, Arthur…”

Bruce starts to sing his version of a song. Because, frankly, he can’t recall the words. “Oh, Arthur! Arthur! Come out and play with me! And bring your jollies three! Duh-duh-duh Applebees! Climb down my drainpipe! I’ll pin you to the door! And we’ll go all night long! Forevermore! More! More! Let’s have a drink!” He throws his hands into the air, a huge smile for the big finish, “Hail to liquor!” _Hiccup._ Bruce wheezes at the cleverness of him and raises a finger to mention about his intelligence, but instead collapses backward _hard._

Finally passing out.

*

He’s in his bed. He knows he’s in his bed, everything smells and feels like it. Familiarity. But… he has no memory of how he got here. He’s sick. That's certain. How? His mind is ripping apart. It’s tearing as he lays there, moaning. He brings his hands up to touch his face and, yes, it’s real. It’s him. He is dying. Why? What did he--

A curtain _Scrapes!_ Open, sunlight blazes in over his face, pierces through his eyelids. Bruce weakly cries out and shies away from it.

“Good morning, Sir. It’s another beautiful day. The sort of day best to be enjoyed at all possible moments.”

“Alfred?” Oh, everything is a thunderous noise. 

“Right as always, Sir. I say, your deductive powers astonish me.”

“Al… what happened… was I, I feel like I was hit by a train…” the young heir says above a whisper.

“Close enough. You discovered the wondrous tastes of alcohol. Then, while under its influence, went on an excursion dressed to impress.”

Wayne tries to peek at the butler who he sees is handing him a cup and saucer. “I did? I mean, I did all that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where did I go?”

“You mean you don’t remember?” The butler frowns. Bruce struggles to sit up. He achieves a slight elevation. It’s good enough. He takes the drink from Alfred; it’s a dark liquid inside. He sniffs it. Coffee. 

Bruce only shakes his head. Alfred heaves a sigh. “What?” his young ward asks.

“You drove to Arkham Hospital yourself. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Sir. You passed out on the lawn and the early morning staff found you in your… condition.”

“In my… what? What do you mean? What happened to me, or what did I do?”

“That, Sir, I will do my best to tell you later, but I was in fact hoping you would be able to inform me as to the answer to those questions. I still haven’t figured out the tree branch.”

Bruce stares at him, bewildered. There’s a twinkle in the butler’s eye before he turns away from him. Rest now, Sir. I will see you downstairs when you are ready.”

The liquid fire destroyed any feeling he had left in his cheeks and tongue. He’s sure he’s caused irreparable damage. But this pain in his head is…

“Al, my head… what did I do to my head? Please, tell me; did I get in an accident, what??”

Alfred gives a knowing smile. “No, Sir. That is called ‘a Hangover.’ The first of many, I am sure. Welcome to adulthood, Master Bruce. You are going to loath it here.”

  
\-----------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's what the words inspired me. I have no excuses. I... I don't know. *Shrugs*
> 
> But, it is another step in the Origin Lore, so I think that's cool.
> 
> Anywho, let me know what you think <3


End file.
